Within
by kitkatkelly
Summary: The Dark Prince returns to wreak havoc with the Prince's life and take control of the world, one Indian princess at a time. ***UPDATED***
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Yes, it's another Dark Prince resurrection fic. I don't need to repeat what's already been established (loved the DP's character, enjoyed the witty banter, was sad when he left) so here is my story.

* * *

_You thought you had destroyed me._

A pathetic wail echoed in the Prince's mind.

_But when you left, you gave me the chance to nurture my strength unhindered._

The Prince turned over in his sleep, his forehead creasing.

_Without you, I can grow as powerful as I desire._

He began to murmur things, nonsense, anxiously.

_Nothing will stop me from taking all I wanted before._

He cried out.

"What, what is it?" Farah mumbled, as alarmed as a half-conscious person can be. "What's wrong?"

The Prince shivered beside her. "Just a bad dream. Sorry for waking you."

She turned over, her breathing soon deepening once again. He, however, couldn't seem to get back to sleep. He knew his nemesis was gone, but weeks later the shadow still haunted his mind. Surely there was no reason to worry; the Dark Prince could not possibly return.

* * *

It had felt only natural for the Prince's friendship with Farah to deepen after they defeated the Vizier. They had been through so much together, and this time, she remembered their ordeals when they were over. The two began a normal courtship and planned to be married in the following months, after which they would rule India together. The Vizier's brutal destruction of the country meant that the people craved strong, just rulers like never before. In the meantime, while her home was rebuilt and the two royal families made arrangements for the wedding, Farah would be staying in the Persian palace.

Her father thought she was sleeping in the suite across from his. She had waited outside the entrance to his bedroom until she heard his snores and then crept across the palace to the Prince's chambers, where she was eagerly received. In the morning she would wake early and sneak back to the set of guest rooms designated as hers for the duration of the Indians' visit. Then she and her family would join the Prince and his family for breakfast, perhaps out in the gardens since it looked to be a pleasant day, and the two lovers would try to keep their smiles secret. After their adventures, they enjoyed sharing that bit of excitement and danger. It was always a thrill for Farah to run as quietly as possible down the cold corridors in her softest slippers, finally arriving breathless at the Prince's door.

Rolling over, she was surprised to find the bed too roomy. "Prince?"

A rustle of fabric. "I'm here," a voice called before its owner became visible, peeking out shirtless from behind a curtain.

Farah smiled. "Good to see you haven't run off on some adventure while I was asleep."

The Prince kissed her cheek. "I think my adventuring days are over, Farah."

"Really?" The princess sounded disappointed. "I might miss that noble hero… although I had to do the rescuing more than once." She smirked.

"Oh, don't worry, princess," the Prince said with a wink. "I'm still just as noble and heroic as ever."

"Can you be, without any crises to solve or great wrongs to right?" she wondered.

"No viziers to defeat?"

She shuddered. "I hope not."

"Twice was enough," he agreed.

As the Prince finished dressing, Farah sat on his bed in contemplative silence for a few minutes before saying with a sigh, "I should go before my father gets suspicious."

The Prince nodded. "We wouldn't want any trouble."

* * *

The day proceeded almost exactly as Farah had predicted. After an outdoor breakfast of flatbread and knowing looks, the two families took a walk through the palace gardens. Farah and the Prince managed to slip away and have a private walk of their own, outside the gardens and back into the palace.

As they roamed the corridors, the sound of their relatives' conversation wound through the stone passages ahead of them and gave the lovers enough warning to duck into the library and close the heavy doors, avoiding discovery a little longer. The Prince pulled Farah through the rows upon rows of dusty books, winding ever further inward, before pinning her against a bookcase and kissing her excited giggles into silence.

A dry but pointed cough halted their frivolity. Simultaneously their faces broke apart and whipped around toward the sound, which came from a man who looked almost as old as the library. He was sitting at a table a ways down the aisle, surrounded by ancient books. Farah tightened her grip on the Prince's hand. He gave hers a reassuring squeeze and walked toward the old man, who rose creakily from his chair to give a slow, aching bow.

"Forgive our intrusion," the Prince said with a polite nod, calm and dignified as ever. "Tell me, Old Man, do you have any words of wisdom to offer me today?"

The Old Man squinted and pursed his lips under a thinning white beard. "Only that you are acting rather imprudent, highness," he admonished. "Let us hope your foolishness causes only small blunders, from which you may learn good judgement and sense appropriate for nobility."

The Prince smiled. Farah could sense the rapport between the two men, like a blanket worn thin and ragged with fond use. "Have I introduced you to my fiancée?"

The Old Man shook his head. "Your words to me have been few indeed since you cleared up that trouble with the Sands."

"In that case," the Prince said grandly, "Let me introduce Her Royal Highness Princess Farah of India."

The Old Man began to bow, but Farah reached out to stay his groaning back, smiling. "My Prince tells me you have been a great help to him, even when he was small."

The Old Man replied with a measure of wizened humility, "I do what I can for this good country." His eyes squinted tighter. "Give me your hand, daughter." Farah complied. He studied the light golden thing with eyes grown tiny in dark sockets, moving his fingers shakily over her smooth skin. "Your beauty will endure to old age and will be carried on by your children," he told her. "You will have a life rich in those treasures which matter – joy, passion, love."

Farah smiled as he dropped her hand. "Your mentor has a true gift," she marvelled to the Prince. Her fiancé laid a hand on the Old Man's shoulder and opened his mouth to speak parting words. But when he touched the Old Man, the elder's eyes grew wide and he gripped the Prince's hand. "Prince," he said in a peculiar wheezing voice, as if the words drained him. "be vigilant. The enemy is still near. That which you fear may rise again to strike you."

Horror filled the Prince's features. "No," he said. "He's gone."

The Old Man shook his head slowly, sadly. "He is a part of you. He never left."

"But…" The Prince struggled for words. "What must I do to be rid of his foul presence?"

"I cannot say. Only: do not grow careless. Be wary that your enemy waits to prey on vulnerabilities. I will do what I can to divine a method for his destruction. Go now. Remain alert, but do not let the thought of that evil one consume you."

As they left the library, the Prince said not a word to Farah, only walked in troubled silence. She hurried to keep up with his grim steps. "Last night," she ventured, "is that what—"

"Yes," came the curt reply.

Farah stopped walking. After a few seconds, the Prince turned to see her standing with her hands on her hips, glaring at him. He sighed. "Now is not the time, Farah."

"The time for what? You to tell me what's going on?" She stood there stubbornly as he took a step toward her.

"I don't _know_ what's going on," he said heavily. "I thought it—he—it was gone."

After a flash of pity, the sharpness left her eyes, leaving only intense frustration. They walked together out into the gardens, in the hopes that the lively foliage would provide some cheer. The Prince told her wearily that he couldn't feel any traces of his dark counterpart during his waking hours, but at night the evil one crept into his dreams and tormented him with possibilities. Even months after the Vizier's defeat, the Prince had not yet recovered from the horror of having his body subjugated and his mind besieged by what was, in terrifying reality, a part of himself. He remembered all too well Farah's initial fear and revulsion upon discovering that weakness, and he saw traces of those on her face now, although she bravely tried to mask them with compassion. Now she held him and told him it would be alright, and he tried very hard to believe her.


	2. Chapter 2

It was difficult, to say the least, for two such vivacious individuals to accept that nothing could be done. They tried mystical rituals for driving out demons and queer-smelling potions meant to cleanse one's soul, but the Old Man merely shook his head when the couple came to him with hopeful faces. The only thing they could do was to try to resume a normal life.

The Prince's continual nightmares made forgetting the matter impossible; he fancied they were coming more frequently. Both he and Farah began to perceive every hint of a negative emotion the former felt as belonging to the edge of a terrifying shadow. The Prince winced every time he felt an itch in his right arm, while Farah grew averse to touching the rough white scars around his wrist. Farah's attempts to dote on him in other ways only resulted in accusations that she was smothering him. After that, the two were short with each other and conversations turned into bickering more often than not. The Prince suspected that it would only be a matter of time before his life was no longer his own. Farah argued that his brooding despondency was allowing it to happen in the present. He would snap that she didn't understand what it was like, and she would bite back that that was his fault for shutting her out. He'd insist there was nothing she could do to help, to which she would give some plaintive reply which he would dismiss as sentimental womanly nonsense, and one or both of them would grow too frustrated to bear the other's presence any longer.

So it went for some weeks. The Prince would mope in his chambers while Farah stewed or quietly wept in hers. Seeing her lover suffer was no less painful than being driven away by him. The past ought to be behind them, she believed; it wasn't _fair_.

* * *

It was one of the last nice days in autumn. Farah decided to go out into the surrounding hanging gardens before the vines withered away. They were really a wonderful sight, and she tried to enjoy the beauty despite her sharp awareness of being alone.

Before she could properly sink into melancholy, her thoughts were interrupted by two strong arms grabbing her about the waist from behind. She screamed in surprise. A matching hand went over her mouth and she heard delighted laughter.

"Farah, you ridiculous girl, it's just me!" The arms released their grasp on her and she whirled around to face the Prince, whose mischievous grin was a bizarre contrast to the gloom and anger that had filled his expression of late.

"What's gotten into you?" she marvelled.

He answered her with a long, hard kiss – the first in far too long, she thought wistfully – before saying, "I thought it was time I became more appreciative of what I have." He stroked her face with his thumb and cupped her chin almost possessively.

The princess was baffled and not a little angry. How could he push her away and ignore her for so long and then expect her to simply melt at his touch? (Although, she hated to admit, she _was_ melting, just a little.) The Maharajah's daughter was not one to be toyed with.

She flicked his hand away and placed her own firmly on her hip. "Something's different about you," she said, "and I want to know what."

"Farah, darling, my love," the Prince wheedled. "Is it so wrong for a man to take a second look at what's important to him? Especially when he realizes his beautiful fiancée" – he kissed her cheek – "is at the top of that list?"

The words were perfect, but… but nothing, Farah scolded herself. _You could learn something about appreciation too_. She didn't know how long this merry streak of his would last, but she would enjoy it while it did.

* * *

_You won't get away with this!_

"Your noble words have never been emptier," the Dark Prince purred.

_Farah will never believe you're me._

"No? Not even in the pale, squishy body she knows? Well, I think she will be nonetheless pleasantly surprised at the change. Think, a fiancé who gets things _done_ rather than sitting about moping all the time."

_She could never love a villain!_

"Prince, Prince, always so lofty and romantic," the Dark Prince sighed. "Love is completely beside the point here. I don't need her affection to get what I want from her."

A sickened pause in the Prince's indignant tirade. _You wouldn't._

"Oh come off it. You know I would, but do you really think I would aim so low? I'm going to get more than a night or two of fun out of your little darling."

The voice settled into an incensed silence. The Dark Prince chuckled to himself; everything was going splendidly.

* * *

Farah had never been happier. The Prince explained to her that he had decided there was no sense worrying about his inner demons if there was nothing he could do about them, and he couldn't have been gladder for it. Moreover, he was sweeping Farah off her feet at every turn – to make up for his earlier neglect, he said. Rarely would a day pass that did not bring some delightful romantic gesture for her to enjoy.

"I believe I'm falling in love with him all over again," Farah sighed to her friend Sumati.

"I still think it's all just a scheme to get you into his bed," Sumati declared, not a little enviously.

Farah gave the girl a little shove. "So what if it is? Why shouldn't I enjoy it?" She thought she heard Sumati mutter _randi_ under her breath, but chose to ignore it. "Anyway the point is that we're having a wonderful courtship and I'm happy."

"For now," Sumati said.


	3. Chapter 3

The Dark Prince paced in his chambers, scheming about the usual diabolical plans. He was interrupted by knock at the door. Morphing his scowl into a smile, he answered it. Farah stood there, nearly glowing with excitement. "Darling," he gushed. "Won't you come in?"

After a kiss hello, she did so joyfully, seating herself on his bed. He closed the door behind her. "I was going over the guest list for the wedding with my mother," she began. The Dark Prince stifled a reflexive eye-roll. Women and their wedding plans. "And we came to a bit of sticky spot with your Uncle Fozhan. It would be a shame if he wasn't welcome. Do you really never speak to him?"

Vivid memories drifted up from the Prince's mind, bitterness speeding them to the Dark Prince's consciousness before he was forced to scramble for an answer. _Of course we don't speak to him. The man is drunk by noon and as loud twenty running horses and he tries to get our cousins into his bed_. All in all a terribly inexpert follower of the hedonistic way, the Dark Prince thought disdainfully. "No, dear, I'm afraid my mother's side of the family is rather ashamed to be related to him. We try to leave out Fozhan whenever possible."

The girl looked disappointed. "It really is a pity everyone can't be as happy as us on our special day."

He kissed her forehead. "Of course, darling. We must make some sacrifices."

She nodded. "I'll tell my mother to leave Fozhan off the guest list." She stood to leave.

Without rising, he gripped her arm as gently as he could manage. "Stay a while," he purred, his other hand creeping up the side of her bare leg.

She smiled but arrested his wandering hand. "Not now. I want to get the invitations finished."

"You'd leave your poor husband-to-be lonely and unsatisfied for a few letters?" He bent down and kissed her leg, pleased to feel her shiver.

But for all her sensual allure, the princess had the will of an ox. "You promised me we'd wait until our wedding night. I want to do this properly."

With difficulty, the Dark Prince fought the intense urge to force her down onto the bed – she was a skinny little thing and he could do it easily, he knew. Anyway, hadn't they already…? _Yes but no. Technically it didn't happen, and she doesn't remember._

He waited a few moments to gain control of himself before releasing her arm. She frowned, rubbing at the white mark left behind. "I'm sorry," he said, trying not to gag on the words. "You're just so irresistible."

Farah crossed her arms, but she couldn't help smiling. With a light kiss – far too light – she bid him goodbye and left him to simmer in his own lust.

* * *

"Sumati," a troubled Farah asked her friend, "am I asking too much of the Prince to control himself until we're married? He seems to be having a hard time of it."

"Of course he is," Sumati retorted. "Men are animals. It's up to us to maintain some kind of control."

"Well," Farah said awkwardly. "Well. I'm not having the easiest time myself."

"Farah!" Sumati shushed her. "Don't let his sweet words get to you. And above all, don't let him know."

"But I really love him," Farah confessed.

"Love has nothing to do with it," Sumati said primly. "You'll have children _after_ you're securely married."

Farah sighed. "But the date is so close."

Sumati nodded. "The wedding will be here before you know it. Just be patient."

* * *

"It's too bloody far away, is what," the Dark Prince muttered to himself. "I can't play Prince Charming with that soppy brat much longer."

From inside his mind came the now-embittered voice of the true Prince: _Farah is _my_ brat. If you've tired of her, I'll be glad to resume the role of charming lover._

"Very funny," the Dark Prince snorted. "But you weren't exactly a model of courtly devotion. Those tend to do a lot less moping and a lot more wooing."

_Well, I'd finished with the wooing. She was as wooed as she'd ever be._

"And then it's just a matter of waiting until the wedding?"

_Not for me. I was enjoying the courtship until you came along._ A smirk crept into the mental voice._ You know, it wouldn't hurt to balance out some of your wickedness with a little patience. I'm sure the other demons wouldn't think less of you._

The Dark Prince snarled and swept his arm across the nearest table. Metal bowls and their contents clattered to the floor. Something shattered.

He cursed loudly. "I don't need patience. I need this wedding to happen sooner." Only then could he establish proper control over the spirited princess and her estate. The self-righteous voice in his ear wasn't helping to speed things along. At least the wimp had stopped trying to fight his way out. "My dear better half, I'm glad you have the good sense to resign yourself to your fate, but I liked you better when you were sulky."

_I've learned a thing or two over the years about changing my fate._


	4. Chapter 4

The wedding day dawned bright and clear like a good dream. The royal caravan had arrived in all its splendor a week previously, and the royals now housed themselves in the gloriously rebuilt Indian palace. Farah sang to herself in the joyfully tuneless voice of an only child as servants dressed her in a passionate red sari. It was all so _perfect._ She looked beautiful, everyone told her, and she truly glowed with happiness. Her husband-to-be cared so much about their special day; he was working with the servants making sure everything was properly prepared. He was a truly wonderful lover.

* * *

The Dark Prince eyed the jugs of wine being set out on tables in the wedding hall. The ruby liquid was such a deliciously tempting colour… and it was his right as a groom to numb his mind with drink to the commitment he was about to undertake. Of course, he held himself to no obligations of love or loyalty – Farah was merely the first step. But he wanted to be fully in control of his faculties. Nothing could interfere with his plans. He'd even resisted satisfying himself with the serving maids in case word spread to Farah. Now he was hungry, starving, in every capacity – but not for much longer. Soon all would be his for the taking.

A servant tripped near the Dark Prince and the wine he carried splashed out across the floor. The Dark Prince sprang back, barely avoiding it.

"Of all the incompetent sons of an idiot whore!" he cursed in the servant's face as the young boy stammered apologies. The dark entity's most basic survival instinct kicked in and he looked at the liquid with panic. "Take this wine away. Take it all away and pour it out! I want no wine at my wedding. If I see one drop, I will step away from my lovely bride to personally wring your skinny throat. Do you understand?"

The boy cowered appropriately and turned to carry out his orders, when a cold hand gripped his shoulder.

"On second thought," the Dark Prince purred, "have the wine sent up to the bridal suite for after the ceremony."

It would be a fine night indeed.

* * *

The wedding was a beautiful affair, of course. The union of two royals required nothing less. Although the guests thought it very strange that no wine was served, no one dared mention it. If their prince and princess wanted a dry wedding, so be it. Perhaps it even would become fashionable among the commoners.

Farah's exuberance kept her from noticing the malice growing in the Dark Prince's smile, and she saw the intense darkness in his eyes only as a sign of his passion for her. They were wed as happily as the best of couples.

When all the formalities were over, it was time to retire to their marriage chamber. They did so with scarcely veiled enthusiasm. The Dark Prince fairly shoved her through the doorway before slamming the door shut behind them.

Farah laughed, a little nervously. "Prince, really—"

"Shut up," he growled, pulling her over to the bed. Her smile disappeared. With a terrifying grin, he tore at her sari.

The red silk pooled bloodlike around her feet; she stood as frightened and furious as a wounded animal. He moved to push her down onto the bed, but to his irritation, she sidestepped his grasping hands. There was fire in her brown eyes. "How dare you even think—"

"I've starved myself for you, wench. Now you'll give me what I want."

"You animal," Farah spat. "You monster!"

He lunged for her again. She ducked under his arm quicker than a mouse. The Dark Prince let out a guttural growl and took large, slow steps toward her. She moved backwards until she bumped into a table which made a metal jingling sound as dozens of jugs of wine clattered against each other. Faster than a wink, she slipped underneath the table and emerged behind it, placing it between her and her new spouse. As he drew nearer, she picked up one of the jugs and hurled it at him.

The container hit his shoulder without much force, but tipped over and sloshed wine down his back. He gave an awful howl. Farah thought she saw smoke or steam rising from his body. Without taking the time to comprehend what had happened, she grabbed another jug and threw its contents on his face.

He screamed, clawing at his skin. With his hands covering his eyes, he stumbled forward and stepped on the tablecloth, rattling the bottles. Farah put her weight against the table and heaved.

Two dozen jugs of wine emptied onto the shrieking figure. Farah ran toward the door when suddenly, the noise stopped, unnaturally cut off. She turned around.

A prince kneeled beside the fallen table, looking at her with eyes she had forgotten she knew. "Farah," he gasped, and she understood.

She flew to him. He was weak, but in no pain. Over and over he repeated, "It's me — he's gone — it's me." She would not let him apologize for his counterpart's behavior, only planted a thousand kisses on his body.

A cry escaped the Prince's mouth. "No," he wailed. "Leave me!" Farah stood puzzled. An angry scream welled up inside him and tore its way out, gradually morphing into a horrible laugh.

"Well," said the Dark Prince. "That was bracing." He stood and smoothed his wet garments before fixing his eyes on the cowering princess. "What, no words of welcome from my new bride?" He cackled. As she dashed toward the door, he moved and blocked her way, producing a key and swiftly locking them in.

He stared at her hungrily. "Hello," he purred.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I always intended to finish this story, ever since I laid out the plot years ago. Life and a growing habit of not-writing got in the way. But I graduated and scored a Real Job, and I find myself with free time and the deep unsatisfied sadness of a neglected passion. I thought I'd continue this story as a way of getting back into writing.

* * *

The servant hurried up the stairs. The Prince was in a temper again, and he had been only too glad to remove himself from his highness's presence. Farah's illness weighed heavily on the Prince, and the exhaustion from caring for his bride showed in his recent quickness to anger. He was extraordinarily devoted to her, adamant that he alone could nurse his beloved back to health. He insisted on personally overseeing every morsel of food produced in the kitchens to be brought up to her room: only the freshest, most perfect fruits, the softest breads, the tenderest cuts of meat for his princess, he declared every day.

The servant fumbled with the heavy key, trying to balance in one hand the silver tray brimming with food. He felt a few grapes roll around on it and gulped - the Prince would have his head if he spilled. At last, the key turned in the lock and he timidly pushed the door open.

As usual, there was no sign of the princess. He did as he had been instructed and set the tray down just inside the doorway. As he went to close the door, he heard a hoarse voice.

"Help," it rasped. "Please. Help me."

The room was dark. He was sure it was empty except for the princess, but his mind refused to connect that voice with his spirited young ruler. It was feeble, hollow, desperate. He gripped the door handle more tightly and squinted.

A hand closed firmly around his wrist. "Thank you. That will be all," murmured the Dark Prince from behind him. From somewhere in the room, a low wail began.

The Dark Prince pushed him roughly through the doorway. The servant's foot bumped the tray of food, and he watched a mango fall off and roll a few feet away before the Dark Prince closed the door behind them both. The Prince's eyes bored into him, but his expression was inscrutable.

"Is she... is she much better, Your Highness?" the servant asked.

The Dark Prince's face fell into a sigh. "Worse, I fear." He glanced at the closed door and sorrow swept his fine features. "She passes through fits of delirium, speaking nonsense and fearing things unseen."

The servant bowed his head, feeling sorry he had asked. "I am sure that with Your Grace's faithful care, her recovery will be swift and complete." He feared he sounded obsequious, but the Dark Prince inclined his head graciously and appeared pleased. The servant bowed lower and left.

* * *

_She deserves better than this. She's a princess, and a warrior._

The Dark Prince laughed, easily. "You really think appealing to my sense of _empathy_ will work? Just how long have I been living inside you?"

_Give her a chance to fight. You love a good fight._

This was undeniable; he had terrorized more than one cowering servant just for the feeling of his fists on human flesh. Grandiose plans were all well and good, but his black heart was in battles, in the shriek of steel on steel and the cries of enemies so easily slaughtered. But he could not risk upsetting his plans, even though he knew the voice inside him spoke only out of desperation.

"How much does it pain you, watching her waste away?" He smiled silkily. The voice said nothing in reply, but he could feel it seething, anguished, beneath his skin. He flicked a grape lazily at the girl huddled in the corner, losing interest even before it glanced off the chain that bound her ankle to a stone pillar. "Let me feel your tragic love beat hopelessly inside this pale, silly body." He laughed again. He was in an excellent mood today.

_At least make her comfortable. Someone might notice the cuts or bruises and get suspicious._

"Ah, a much more sensible attempt," the Dark Prince applauded. "But you know perfectly well that no one dares enter this room. Everyone knows that the princess's illness is likely to be highly contagious, since I've hinted it far and wide. All the more noble of me for doting on her so, of course!"

_When she dies, they'll see her body._

This actually impressed him. That the whimpering prince could stand to think that plainly of his lover's death spoke of a pragmatism that the Dark Prince could not help but admire. But it only raised his spirits higher.

"Maybe I'll set my lover's body aflame in my stupendous grief," he said, and he began prancing around the room as rage that was not his rose to the surface. He embraced it, cackling. Rarely had he appeared more like a demon than as he danced then in the low flickering firelight, red on his scarred skin, white teeth flashing. "Who cares! It will be too late by then. India will be mine."

_India will always belong to its beloved princess. The people will never accept a monster like you-_

"They will when the rest of the royal family is dead," he sang. "That's the beauty of the monarchy. Total power and no argument."

The voice was silent again. He could feel that it was straining to sense his plans, to catch an idea of his next step. He clicked his tongue. "As if there's anything you could do about it. How has it been going so far, reasoning with me from the sidelines? The wheedling voice begging most piteously for mercy on behalf of his precious love?" He made a face as though even the word was distasteful. "Sad wretch of a man. Save a shred of dignity and give up. Just go quietly into a corner of me and we'll both forget you ever existed."

The voice said nothing.

* * *

"He doesn't know," said Farah. "He can't. I think the very idea of hope is abhorrent to him."

The Prince nodded. "He does well with maniacal glee, but doesn't seem to have much grasp of other positive emotions."

Farah wrapped two hazy arms around his. All was warmth and light here, for now. But she saw shadows out of the corner of eyes and she dared not loosen her grasp, illusory though she knew it was.

Sure enough, the Prince winced. "I think he-I'm-we're waking up." Farah clung more tightly, but the Prince's arm was shifting in and out of focus and seemed to be becoming softer and softer, until her hands fell through it and found only each other. But she nodded as she tried to find his face in the mist. "Until next time," she said.


End file.
